


Our Hands

by Salambo06



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Holding Hands, John defending Sherlock, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Seduction, never ending fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 15:57:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11809305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salambo06/pseuds/Salambo06
Summary: Sherlock and John are in a cafe, gathering clues. The only problem is, Sherlock, socially unaware as he is, starts mouthing his observations louder and louder until eventually, he’s spinning around and rattling off at full speed and a fuller volume in the middle of the floor. Everyone is staring, and John is starting to become aware of this. When he realises what is happening, Sherlock hangs his head, his cheekbones colouring a light crimson. So John takes his hand boldly, even though they’ve never done this, even though he isn’t sure he can do this. And soon, Sherlock’s blush takes on a new meaning entirely.________This fic is marked complete for now, but I will add more chapters one by one. You can send me prompt for future chapters too!





	Our Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [johnwatso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/gifts).



> Once upon a time, xtina wrote the perfect prompt and asked for me to turn it into a fic. As I put into words, yet again, the undeniable love and silent pinning of a consulting detective and his blogger, I found myself struggling with how to end my story. Xtina then spoke words of wisdom and declared that I should write a fiction that never ends. And so, the Never-Ending Fic came to be. 
> 
> Readers, do not hesitate to share your own wishes on how this story should continue while enjoying this never ending story. 
> 
>  
> 
> Happy Birthday Xtina, and I hope this is what you were thinking about when you wrote your prompt <3
> 
> Thank you to [Heather](http://snogbox1.tumblr.com/) for her job as a beta !  
> Enjoy,  
> Pauline.
> 
>  
> 
> Edit: I've decided to turn this into a multi-chapter fic instead of a series, so I'll be posting the chapters of the Never Ending fic here now! Send me ideas for what you wish to see happen to our boys ;)

John hides his smile in his mug, letting the still hot beverage warm him up after the hours they’ve just spent at a freezing outdoor crime scene, trying to make sense of the three dead bodies lying on the ground. Lestrade had called in the early morning, apologizing for the last minute notice, but he had really seemed desperate and it had only taken a few minutes to settle Rosie in 221A. Sherlock had remained on the phone during the entire cab ride, apparently very pleased to have a good case, and it had taken all of John’s will not to slide closer and lace their fingers together. He had been thinking about for much too long now, staring at Sherlock’s hands at the most random moments of the day and wondering what he would say if he’d just press their palms together and hold on tightly. 

He’s still not sure how he managed to convince Sherlock to stop for a cup of coffee on their way back home, especially considering the puzzling nature of this case in particular. But it appears that Sherlock doesn’t mind the place at all, and that he has chosen to act, out here, just as if they were at home anyway. He hasn’t sat down since they pushed the door to the coffee shop open, letting the smell and quiet discussions fill John’s head but not his own apparently. And if John had been enjoying the warmth and well deserved caffeine, he also hadn’t stopped staring at Sherlock’s pacing next to him for the past ten minutes.

“There has to be something,” he mutters once again, both hands clasped together against his chin. “Suicide doesn’t make any sense. You don’t choose to kill yourself with your family in the middle of your garden, John. It doesn’t make any sense!”

John sets down his mug, leaning against his chair, “You’ve said that already, yes.”

Sherlock glares at him, “You’re not helping.”

“We just spent three hours looking at the bodies, Sherlock,” John sighs, closing his eyes to rub a hand over them. “I’m tired, you’re tired, let’s just go home and I’m sure Lestrade will have more info soon.”

“Boring,” Sherlock snaps, a little louder than needed, and John catches the concerned look from the women on the next table. He smiles at her, and she quickly looks back at her book, Sherlock remaining oblivious to the entire exchange. “The mother was wearing her favorite dress, John. She chose to put it on this morning which can only mean she was getting ready to have a good day, one she was going to enjoy, and I’m fairly certain killing herself wasn’t her idea of fun.”

“Maybe she put it on because she wanted to look good for her death,” John says, ignoring another of Sherlock’s glares.

“You and I both know you’re not that much of an idiot, John, so don’t think like one,” Sherlock replies, and John can’t help but smile a little wider at that, watching as Sherlock’s own lips curl into a matching grin. “Three people don’t chose to kill themselves over lunch, John. One second they were eating, the next their throats were cut.”

Two different couples turn toward them at Sherlock’s words, and John shakes his head, smiling, “Detective,” he breathes as an explanation.

“We’re missing something,” Sherlock continues, not having yet noticed the curious stares. “The dad was still holding his fork, he had to be the one to die first. The killer took care of the strongest one first, leaving only the mother and daughter to kill next. Easier that way.”

“Sherlock,” John calls softly, the two of them earning more and more concerned and amused looks, but Sherlock ignores him, waving both arms in the air as he continues to talk it all out.

“And besides, why would they have lunch outside in the middle of winter. It doesn’t make any sense,” Sherlock says again, louder. “Doesn’t make any sense!”

The first laugh comes from behind them, and John barely has the time to turn around before he hears it, the almost too quietly breathed, “Who’s this freak?” quickly followed by more laughter. He tries to remain calm, to ignore the obvious wanker behind him and focus back on Sherlock who still doesn’t seem to have noticed anything.

“Sherlock,” he tries again, now sitting on the edge of his seat. “We should maybe head back home now.”

“I don’t want to go home, John,” Sherlock snaps, now too engrossed in his own thoughts to care about anything else, and John watches, worried, as he continues to go over all the details of the crime scene one by one. Another wave of laughter fills the air as Sherlock almost trips over a chair, and this time John doesn’t miss his sudden stillness. 

“Sherlock,” he breathes, getting ready to stand up in case he actually hurt himself, but Sherlock straightens up, looking around him quickly. The laughter hasn’t died off yet and John catches even one girl filming them both on her phone. Sherlock looks down at the floor sharply, now deadly silent.

“What?” The man behind John asks, “Show’s finished already?”

John stands up, anger boiling in his stomach, “You’ve got something to say?” he asks, about to make sure the man can’t laugh anymore but he notices Sherlock’s closed eyes and flushed cheeks, and John’s breath catches. Sherlock still hasn’t moved, still hasn’t looked up, and suddenly John can’t make another move. It takes only a second to remember Wilkes, to remember Donovan, to remember Anderson with all the remarks and cruel jokes, and the anger threatens to overwhelm him. He can’t recall the last time he witnessed Sherlock feeling embarrassed, almost ashamed, and something is twisting inside his chest, aching to find a way to make it all stop. 

Acting before he can think properly about it, John crosses the remaining distance between them and slides his hand against Sherlock’s, threading their fingers together slowly and squeezing as Sherlock’s eyes find him again, wide.  _ There _ , he thinks,  _ we’re in this together. _ John breathes out deeply, refusing to look away as he says, “Let’s get out of here.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, simply staring at him, and another laugh forces John to break eye contact. He smiles at the man still trying to make his friend laugh, a smile he knows looks calm but terrifying, and for a moment, he readies himself to actually punch the man. But then Sherlock’s thumb is stroking his palm, and John shakes it off, focusing on the tender touch only. He tugs on Sherlock’s hand, leading them both towards the door, silence having filled the coffee shop now, and John makes sure to cast one last look at the man still staring at them before closing the door. 

The outside air makes it all that much more real, and suddenly all John can think about is what he just did. He looks down at their still joined hands, wondering what he had been thinking exactly, and finding that he can’t bring himself to regret it. Sherlock still hasn’t said a word, still hasn’t reacted, and John tentatively looks back at him only to find Sherlock’s eyes fixed on their hands too. Unable to repress a smile, John stares at him for a long moment, wishing nothing more but to press their lips together, right now, wanting to solidify all the quiet and slow evolution of their relationship lately with a kiss. 

“Sherlock,” he whispers, desperate to have those two eyes back on him, desperate to let him see it all on his face. 

It takes a moment for John to notice there’s a ringtone echoing in the air, and even longer to realise it’s Sherlock’s. It’s only when Sherlock lets go of his hand to answer that John realises what he was about to do, and he quickly looks away, inhaling deeply. He vaguely pays attention to what Sherlock is saying, his head spinning just a little with the still so vivid fantasy of Sherlock’s lips against his.

“Lestrade wants us back at the Yard,” Sherlock finally says, staring at the other side of the road. 

“Something new?” John asks, unable to stop himself from glancing at Sherlock’s hand again.

Sherlock only nods in response, and for a long moment they just remain there, close and silent. John tries not to think he might have just done something really, really stupid. 

In the end, John finds himself unable to think about the exact feeling of Sherlock’s hand in his any longer the moment Lestrade announces that they just found another DNA sample from the crime scene, and Sherlock is back on the case in less than a second. It’s not for another four long hours before they can finally wrap it up, the thrill of the chase still making John’s heart beat just a little faster than usual. He breathes in deeply as he finally steps outside, the noise of the Yard behind him, and he doesn’t have to wait long for Sherlock to join him, letting out a deep sigh.

“That went faster than expected,” he says, and John can’t help but laugh, casting him a quick look. “Lestrade will probably need us tomorrow for more details, I fear he wasn’t listening to anything I said in the end.”

“It’s been a long day,” John says, trying to find excuses for his friend. “We’re all exhausted.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock replies, fastening his coat more firmly around him. 

“Well, I am, knackered even,” John sighs, rubbing a hand against his nape. “Good thing Mrs. Hudson could take care of Rosie today.”

Sherlock smiles, “She’ll never say no when it comes to her.”

John laughs again, remembering the first time he had introduced Rosie to their landlady and the happy tears that had rolled down her cheeks. “Home, then?”

Sherlock nods, already starting to walk down the street and John silently accepts the walk back to Baker Street instead of a car ride. He doesn’t mind, really. To be entirely honest, he loves to walk around the city with Sherlock, especially since he has moved back in with him. Of course, they often take walks to the park with Rosie, but this is different. This is just the two of them sharing a moment, together. They don’t have to be anything else but just  _ them _ when they walk side by side, and John always makes sure to breathe every second in each time. 

But as Sherlock’s arm brushes his as he avoids a trolley coming towards them, John is suddenly very much aware of the fact that he took Sherlock’s hand just a few hours ago, and he can feel his cheeks heating. He looks down at his feet, Sherlock resuming to walk at a reasonable distance from him. It was still strange to think of all the small changes that had occurred since Mary had died, since they had decided to share the same flat again, since John had realised he had been avoiding the inevitable all along. There isn’t a chance he can forget just how in love he is with this brilliant man walking next to him, and it’s about bloody time that he do something about it. 

And so he had moved back to 221B and let time decide for the two of them. He had stopped holding back, and after a few days, it had been obvious that Sherlock had noticed and decided to do that too. It wasn’t unusual now for John to brush Sherlock’s nape softly when he was working on an experiment, and for Sherlock to lean close each time he had to correct something over John’s shoulder. If they never did talk about it, John knows they’re getting there, slowly. He only needs to catch Sherlock’s smile directed at him at random moments of the day to realise that it’s been right there, all along. That he only need to reach out and pull Sherlock toward him to finally,  _ finally _ let the two of them collide. 

_ Then what am I so bloody afraid of _ ? he thinks with a sigh, eyeing Sherlock’s hand and wondering why he just doesn’t thread their fingers together again. 

“Do you think every abandoned child wants to get revenge?” Sherlock asks suddenly, and it takes a long moment for John to understand what he’s talking about.

“I hope not,” he replies. “This girl is clearly mentally ill. I’m sure some abandoned children are very eager to find out where they truly came from, but most of them are probably very happy.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, nodding absently. John smiles, shifting closer unconsciously, “You were really impressive today, you know, solving the case in just a day.” Sherlock still remains silent, but John doesn’t miss the flush spreading to his neck and cheeks. He can’t remember the last time he saw Sherlock blushing so easily, and he can’t stop himself as he says “Amazing, really.”

Sherlock only shrugs, barely hiding his flushed face anymore, and their arms are brushing with every step now, neither of them thinking about moving away. John flexes his fingers a little, the temptation to take Sherlock’s hand again becoming almost overwhelming, and he feels Sherlock’s skin against his, brushing softly, sucking all the air out of him. He tries not to stare at either their too close hands or Sherlock’s face, but focusing on anything else is becoming more and more challenging. This is ridiculous, he should be able to slide his fingers down Sherlock’s wrist and palm without feeling this afraid. 

“Let’s find somewhere to eat,” John says suddenly, not exactly sure what he’s offering but finding that he’s not ready to climb the stairs to his room and let what happened today die during the night. 

Sherlock frowns at him, “I thought you were tired.”

“Not anymore,” John shrugs, another brush of their fingers making him shiver. “I’m hungry, and you’ve barely eaten since this morning.”

“What about Rosie?” Sherlock asks, but John smiles as he doesn’t deny being hungry himself. “Mrs. Hudson is waiting for us.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind,” John says, “and besides, she only has to put her to sleep upstairs and keep the baby monitor just in case.”

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment, the two of them closer than ever, and it takes all of John’s self control not to kiss all thoughts of going home away from Sherlock’s head. 

“Chinese?” Sherlock finally asks.

John hesitates for a moment, “Why don’t we try something new? I’m sure there’s a lot of good restaurants we’ve never gone to around here.”

Sherlock only nods, looking away but John doesn’t miss the small smile on his lips, and he finds that he can’t help smiling himself.  _ Something new _ , he thinks happily _ , for a fresh start _ . They walk in silence for another moment, the noise of the city hardly covering the beating sound of John’s heart, and when Sherlock suddenly stops in front of what appears to be the best indian food of London, John can only smile and follow him inside. 

“Welcome,” a waiter immediately greets them. “Two?”

“Yes,” John replies, eyeing the already crowded place.

“I’m afraid we only have the table at the back with bar chairs, if that’s alright with you to sit next to each other,” the man says, sounding almost pained with the only option he can offer them.

“That’s perfect,” John smiles, and they follow him to the far end of the restaurant, a few more couples or friends already sitting at the long table against on the wall. It did look more like a bar without a bartender behind, but John sits with the same undying smile on his lips. John sends a text to Mrs Hudson to tell her they’ll be home a bit later than planned, and she quickly assures him that she’ll be fine. Sherlock is looking at his menu when John puts his phone away, and for a second, there’s nothing John can do but stare at him and wonder if Sherlock is actually aware of how  _ breathtaking _ he is. 

They quickly order food, their waiter apparently eager to please as he offers them some appetizers. Sherlock eats one, two, three of them before breathing out deeply and John truly looks at him for a moment, noticing just now the tension in his shoulders. “Everything’s alright?” 

Sherlock glances at him, replying too quickly, “Yes.”

John bites his lower lip, feeling himself tense up too, “If it's about what happened at the coffee shop, I-”

“I understand why you did… that,” Sherlock cuts in, eyes fixed on the table. “But…” he continues before falling silent again, and John feels his heart sink.

“Oh,” he breathes, looking away too. “I’m sorry if it was a bad idea, I didn't really think, just… acted.”

Sherlock doesn't reply, still not looking at him and John forces himself not to say anything else.  _ An idiot, that's what I am.  _ Here he was, thinking about taking his hand again while Sherlock had probably been trying to find a way to tell him he preferred not to. Christ, just to think he had did  _ that _ to Sherlock when he was already feeling distressed.  _ Bloody idiot. _ The last thing Sherlock needed was to think John pities him enough to-  _ wait. _

John looks back at Sherlock quickly, heart pounding and his breath short as he says softly, “I can't deny that I wanted to shut them all up, but I took your hand because I wanted to.”

Sherlock glances at him again, the questions not breaching his lips written all over his face.

“Yes, it was to make a stand, to show them all that there was someone who l- cared for you, but…” John takes a deep breath, knowing he might just be saying too much and ruining everything. “I wanted to take your hand. I mean, my first instinct was to take your hand because that's something I had thought about. Before.” He waits another moment, staring into Sherlock’s eyes before adding, “It wasn't just something to make them stop.”

Silence stretches between them before Sherlock finally breathes out, “You wanted to.”

“Yes,” John nods, trying his best not to flinch. “It wasn’t just about those idiots. I wanted to show you that you don’t have to face all this alone, that I’m here, with you, for you.”

John holds his breath, desperately convincing himself that he has not just ruined everything, but then there is a smile on Sherlock’s lips, a small, private smile that makes all of John’s body shiver. He watches, heart pounding, as Sherlock’s eyes drop to his hand, and he knows that if Sherlock would only look up he’d be able to read it all on his face. 

“Can I hold your hand now?” Sherlock asks, the words almost too quiet in the crowded place, and John allows himself a second to close his eyes and let it all sink in.

“Yes,” he breathes, opening his palm on his thigh and feeling Sherlock’s fingers tracing the lines there immediately. He looks down, not wanting to miss a thing, and something close to a laugh escapes him when Sherlock finally closes his own hand around his. They both stare at their combined hands for a long moment, not saying a word, and when the waiter comes with their food, neither of them even think of letting go. 

They start to eat in silence, the two of them getting around with still holding hands, and John can’t seem to be able to stop smiling. He glances at Sherlock, maybe a bit too much, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s beautiful, so  _ beautiful _ in this very moment that he could fall in love all over again. 

“Are you going to use this case to re-open your blog?” Sherlock asks after a moment, picking at his food absently. 

John doesn’t bother to ask how he knows he’s been thinking about writing again, simply replying, “It could be a nice one, yes.”

“Already thought of a title?” Sherlock asks, eyeing him with an amused smile.

John rolls his eyes, “Not yet. But I’m sure you’ll find something to say about it when I do.”

“I’m only trying to help, you know,” Sherlock replies, leaning back against his chair, having apparently finished eating. “Your blog bring us most of our clients.”

“Exactly,” John smiles. “Even with stupid titles it seems.” Sherlock doesn’t reply, staring at him with this same smile on his lips, and John tries his best not to shiver when he feels his thumb stroking his skin slowly. He lets his own fingers tighten the grip around Sherlock’s. “It’ll be just like before,” he breathes, not sure why exactly.

“More or less,” Sherlock replies, sounding all too serious all the sudden. “It can never truly be, can it?”

John considers his answer for a long moment, staring into Sherlock’s eyes and seeing promises there, “We can at least try to make it better then.”

“We can,” Sherlock breathes out, and for a moment, John is afraid he might never be able to let go of his hand again. Not until he can prove to him just how desperate he is to make up for everything. 

John can’t help but laugh as he watches Sherlock trying to repress a yawn, “You were the one who was tired.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, shrugging, “I solved an eight today.”

“You did,” John replies, barely hiding the softness in his voice, Sherlock’s eyes looking back at their joined hands. “Let’s go home, for real this time.”

Sherlock seems confused for a moment, but John makes sure to hold on to his hand as he stands up, paying without letting go. It’s only when they’re outside that he realises there’s another flush on Sherlock’s cheek, “Everything’s alright?” he asks, worried.

Sherlock eyes him carefully, “Yes, it’s just that I’m not… used to this,” he says, raising their hands. “Especially in public.”

John smiles, pulling him closer, “We don’t have to. If you prefer, it can be when it’s just the two of us.”

“No,” Sherlock replies quickly. “I… I don’t mind.”

John nods, resisting yet another urge to kiss him, and with smile, he turns to head back home. Neither of them talk all the way back to Baker Street, but the feeling of Sherlock’s hand in his is all John needs right now. He lets the warmness of the touch fill his entire body, lets it clear his mind and build up the hope growing in his chest. It’s only when they get closer to 221B that John realises Sherlock is holding on a bit tighter, and he makes sure to remain close as they open the front door. There is a note on the table, Mrs Hudson assuring them that Rosie is fast asleep and wishing them both a goodnight. John takes it with him as they climb the stairs and finally gets inside the flat. 

With only silence surrounding them, they stop in the kitchen, barely breathing. John knows he’s gonna have to let go, he’s gonna have to get upstairs and finds his own empty bed, but he finds that he quite not like ending the night this way. Without a word, he pulls Sherlock towards his bedroom, stopping in front of the door and staring into his eyes as he raises their joined hands to his mouth, kissing Sherlock’s softly. 

“ _ John, _ ” Sherlock breathes, almost too quietly. 

“Please,” John whispers against his skin, “let me do it right this time.”

John isn’t sure how everything happens really, but suddenly there are Sherlock’s lips being pressed against his own, his breath warm against his skin and their hands holding on tightly.  _ Everything _ , happening all too fast for him to properly register any of it, and with his head spinning and heart racing, John can only  _ feel _ . But Sherlock is already pulling away, murmuring a quiet “Goodnight,” before letting go of his hand and getting into his room in the speed of light. 

John stares at his door for a long moment, still processing what just happened while forcing himself to breathe properly again. “Goodnight,” he finds himself whispering to the silent room, the taste of bright promises for the days to come still lingering on his lips. 

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
> Don't hesitate to send me prompts for the futur parts of this fic!
> 
> follow me @ [ggaypilot](http://ggaypilot.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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